


Blood Vow

by Lady_Therion



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Post-ACOFAS, Witch!Nesta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-01 21:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19185979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Therion/pseuds/Lady_Therion
Summary: Cassian seeks Nesta's comfort.





	Blood Vow

Cassian had been gone for several days.

It was not their longest separation. Still, Nesta was filled with a curious dread, a worry that pricked like thorns. It seeded itself within her heart long before he left; while he took his fill of her in their bed, with her repaying him in kind. The wild and desperate way he looked at her... _It’s fear,_ she realized. Of what, she didn’t know. But by then he was coming for her so beautifully that she could form no words to ask him.

He reached for her again that night, a few hours before dawn. It was the second time he did so. She was about to make some jest of it. Cassian had always been insatiable. Yet there, in that moment, something seemed...off-kilter. He reached for her as if for reassurance, as if she were a ward against some dark nightmare closing in on him like a net. Again, that scent of fear…

“What’s wrong,” she whispered.

He shook his head, drawing her into a deep kiss. “I just need you, Nesta. Please.”

She could not refuse him. And when he finished, he stayed inside her, unwilling to let her go.

* * *

A short while later, he was fully armored. A grim expression on his face. She cast her enchantments on him, spells of protection and strength. She ran a finger over the edge of his blade, a thin line of her own blood seeping into the metal. No mortal, or immortal for that matter, could deny Cassian’s prowess with a sword. This magic would simply keep that sword from breaking and make every blow that struck true, strike all the harder. These were the roles they play now: the witch and the warrior. She could only imagine what the ballads would sing of them as the centuries wore on. The thought made her smile.

He brushed the loose curls from her face so that he could cradle it between his calloused fingers. “I love you,” he said, lips kissing her forehead. Then he was gone, the boom of his wings ringing throughout the sky and somehow leaving her hollow.

* * *

Nesta kept herself busy. She walked through the Steppes, gathering flora and fauna for her spellwork. She did not do it alone. Often, the beasts of those ancient forests joined her. Stags, boars, wolves, hawks. Among her favorites were the mountain lions. One lioness in particular took a liking to her. She was a fierce and cunning thing, with a deep scar over one of her golden eyes. Nesta named her Hella and spoiled her with raw strips of meat from her table.

Cassian would marvel at his wife’s sorcery, her magic and her strange ability to attract such animals. All were drawn to her power, which was Cauldron-born and the crux of nature itself. People may have never been Nesta’s forte. But the creatures within the Steppes often made for better company. Illyrians, included.

Today, all of Nesta’s spells turned to ash. She hissed and glared in irritation at the useless and charred paste within her earthen bowls. At her feet, the wolves and lions rumbled at her anger. Hella cocked her head to the side as if to say, “ _You should set it aside for now_ .” Perhaps, she should. Magic, she learned, was only as strong as her will, and witchcraft was a _craft_. One that demanded diligence and devotion. She had neither of them now, because now, only a single question occupied her.

_What had Cassian been hiding?_

It was one of the few times where she wished she and him had been mates, rather than husband and wife. Though bond or no bond, their love for one another was absolute and undeniable. And while the legends and the stories spoke of mates that were bound by destiny, only a handful seemed to find joy in it. Feyre and Rhysand were the only example they knew of.

As for Cassian and Nesta, they relished in the knowledge that they chose one another. And would choose each other again. Destiny did not have a hand in their love, and it was all the more stronger for it.

Still, a bond had its advantages. Among them being able to sense and feel and _know_ what plagued the other. It was a wishful thought, she knew. A folly, for there were limits to even that. If one mate wanted to keep secrets from the other, a mental barrier was all that was needed.

Cassian had not told her the particulars of his mission. Only that it was a dire one. It never gave him satisfaction to lay a sword against his own people. For all they tormented him and his mother, he loved them deeply and wished to see them prosper. She didn’t understand it in the beginning...how he could remain so loyal to them. But then she remembered his faith in her and how it never seemed to waver.

It had taken her a long time to realize that Cassian’s greatest strength was not his killing power, or his talent on the battlefield. It was his heart. His compassion. His steadfastness in the face of insurmountable odds. He would move mountains for her if he could.

And she would do the same.

* * *

Answers came in the form of the Morrigan.

She appeared in all her golden glory at their house, walking up the stone path and through the open door where Nesta was at her workbench. At once, the wolves stood at attention. As did Hella and her younger sisters. Morrigan showed no sign of fear, but she was wary. She would always be wary. Cassian had been her lover and brother and shield. Their entanglement existed centuries before Nesta. They were family in all but blood. And because of that, Nesta would pay the respects that were due. But she would not bow. Not for Morrigan. Not for anyone.

Not even Rhysand.

“You’re looking well,” said Morrigan, finally.

Nesta could tell that she meant it. Time in the woods and the wilds had infused Nesta with a bright glow, like a nymph from one of the tapestries that hung in the House of Wind. The dresses she wore were no longer drab or discrete, but had open panels that showed off the bare skin of her arms, her shoulders, her back. They were pleasing and allowed her to move more freely. She had woven them herself, from cloth that looked as soft as gossamer, but in truth was as unyielding as the scaled armor among the legions. The loom she used once belonged to the Weaver—a powerful witch if there ever was one. Nesta could feel echoes of her predecessor still, in the warp and weft of the threads she spun.

“Your hair’s much longer,” Morrigan added, eyes roving over Nesta’s unbound tresses. She _had_ let it grow long over the seasons. Riots and riots of deep, golden-brown curls falling to her waist. “Do you ever think of cutting it?”

“No,” said Nesta. _Cassian enjoyed pulling it too much._ “What brings you here?”

Morrigan nodded. Nesta never had much patience with small talk and niceties. Something Amren immediately understood, but the rest of the Inner Circle were slow to grasp. She could never keep up with their friendly banter, their gaudy innuendo. No, Nesta simply preferred to observe and speak only when she needed to. And offer a cutting remark where she believed it was warranted.

“He’s asking for you,” said Morrigan.“He won’t see anyone else.” This time, a shadow of distress passed over her beautiful face. “He’s...it’s bad, Nesta.”

That was all she needed to know.

***

Nesta did not like to winnow. She had her own way of moving about the world, but allowed Morrigan to take her by the hand regardless. Once, the dark smoke cleared, Nesta realized that they were in the estate upon the river. The place where Feyre had delivered that fateful sentence that changed everything. How many lifetimes had passed since then?

Morrigan led her to the room where Cassian was. His brothers conspicuously absent. She saw him standing by the open window, staring at the Sidra, his back to her. The scent of copper filled her nostrils. Blood. So much of it, though none of it was his own. But there was something else in that scent too: pain, despair.   

Sensing her, he turned, and what she saw made her pause. There was no light in Cassian’s eyes. Instead, there was a void, black and all-consuming. Nesta had seen many different shades and flickers of her husband after battle: weary, triumphant, mournful. But she had never, in all their years together, had seen him like this. Cold and distant. Deadened, even. Whatever he had gone to do, he did not want to do it. And the dissonance was breaking him apart.

Morrigan had not been exaggerating.

“Cassian,” she said softly, approaching him with caution. His face wore a mask of red; blood that barely dried. It stained everything. His leathers, his armor, his sword, even the tips of his night-dark hair. Whoever he cut down must have fallen like wheat before the scythe.

“Nesta,” he said, low and guttural. She had only ever heard that tone once before: when he  asked her if she had ever lain with a male and sensed that one had harmed her. That had been when he had been close to killing. Killing without mercy, killing without hesitation. It filled her with fear then and it did so now.

She closed the distance between them. That roiling power of his simmering beneath his skin. His siphons pulsed erratically. _What happened to him?_

She cupped his face, not caring that her own clothes would be marred and filthy. “What do you need?” she asked. “I’m here.”

His eyes were still drawn into a glare that could have gutted lesser beings. They were flat with hate, but not at her. No, that hate was directed toward _himself_ . Without warning, he tipped up her chin, his grip iron-clad, and kissed her. Darkly. Roughly. Possessively. Every press of his lips, his tongue, and now his teeth, was demanding. No, not just demanding. _Pleading_. Pleading for comfort, for an anchor, for her to give him salvation.

Suddenly his hands, those beautiful and bloodied hands, were everywhere. Skimming down her shoulders, to her waist, her hips, grasping and squeezing her backside almost painfully. Every kiss was bruising and brutal. A burning, hot trail from her mouth to her neck. She knew his desire: He wanted to claim her. Soon those skilled fingers were tearing at the sash at her waist…

“No,” she said, panting and breathless. “Not here.”

There was a flicker of apology that surfaced through the miasma of his grief. “Nesta...”

“Hush,” she said, drawing him close. “Let’s go home.” He nodded, burying his face into her shoulder as a silver-white light filled the room, like the shine of a coin caught in the sun, and they vanished from sight.

* * *

She drew him a warm bath the moment they arrived. He remained silent, quiet and unmoving as he sank into the tub. As if sensing the thick heat of tension, all of Nesta’s beastly companions had taken leave for the night, leaving their normally lively household empty.

Cassian’s moods could be as contrary and as mercurial as her own. The two of them fed one another; like kindling, like tinder. They were a wildfire waiting to happen. The only difference was that her warrior husband’s heart was worn upon his sleeve, whereas his sorceress wife liked to keep hers hidden from all.

Mostly, all.

But sometimes Cassian’s anger and hatred would sink into a deeper place, a place that was possibly more fathomless than her own emotional maelstrom. This was the place where he was now trapped. And despite all the countless moments she had stood by his side, and lain with him in their bed, she still felt somehow...inadequate. At a loss. It was not a problem she could solve with words or magick. No, her darling brute had to come to her of his own accord.

If he chose to.

* * *

He came to her an hour later. Clean and smelling of pine and woodsmoke and that something else, something that was uniquely him. His hair was loose, unbound as hers was, and damp against his golden-brown skin. His eyes were...unreadable. She fought the urge to glance away. Their hazel color never ceased to delight her, always flickering with changing shades of green and gold and brown. Now they were like black windows, like something had extinguished within them.

She had lit their hearth, letting its warmth burn low so that only shadows and moonlight crossed their room. She was already undressed, naked as she preferred to be when she slept, lying among the furs and blankets at the foot of their bed. Would he share his secrets with her now? Would he free himself of that shame that was so clearly eating away at his bones, corroding him from inside? She wanted him to, but in matters concerning her husband, it didn’t matter what she wanted. She would let him lead the way.

“I missed you,” she said, gently.

A hitch of his breath was the only sign of something within him breaking, of giving way. But not by much. Right now, her General Commander was a fortress and if she wanted to lay siege, then she would have to be clever and true, like the heroes he worshipped from his childhood tales.

“Nesta,” he said. Still, that low growl. He beckoned to her as a wolf would. Softly, but with a slight edge. A taunt.

She raised herself up on her knees and drew herself to him. _Hot_ , she thought. His skin was so hot, as though he truly were fire made flesh. She ran her palms across the broad planes of his chest, his abdomen, the muscles rippling at her gentle touch. Her husband worked hard for his body and it showed in a thousand spades. He earned every scar, every cut. When she traced the deep V of his hips, willing him to remove his towel, he grasped her hands. Hard.

“What do you need?” she asked him again. This time she was the one pleading. “Tell me what you need.” His breathing grew harsh with every syllable she uttered, as though he couldn’t stand to see her begging. “Cassian, please—”

He leapt on her then, sending them tumbling down into the furs. His towel was gone and she could feel him throbbing, sending a dark chill down her spine. How many times had they done this? A thousand? A hundred thousand? Eternities? Infinities? And yet each time, it felt pure and good. It did not seem possible; how each time was somehow better than the last.

Around them the air seemed to crackle as he leaned down, caging her between his arms. “What do I need? I need you to make my hand wet.”

It used to embarrass her. The filthiness of his words. It made her redden, stammer, and yes, very, very wet. Not that she could admit to him then. But now? Now she yielded. The ache between her legs was growing, making her squeeze and slide her thighs to gather more friction. She gasped as he began to sloppily lick his own fingers, in and out, in and out, in an obscene imitation of how he wanted to fuck her. She loved it. Always had. Even now her mouth fell open at the sight, mewling jealously.

She hated it when he didn’t share.

Cassian obliged her. Drawing out his pointer and middle finger with a loud pop before placing them in between her own lips. She sucked them down with abandon, moving her head back and forth along the digits as though they were his cock. His thick and glorious cock which began to twitch against her, fluid gathering at the rigid tip.

“Fuck,” he whispered before taking his fingers away. He yanked back her hair, her back arching so that her breasts were pressed into his face. So crude, so delicious.  Then suddenly she felt them: those fingers sliding across the glistening seam of her sex. His touch was teasing at first, gliding, barely-there motions that coaxed her open.  

She opened. Then moaned when his fingers sunk into her just as his wicked mouth fastened itself around her nipple. Her husband had always been a very indulgent lover. As generous with pleasure as he was generous with everything else. He was generous still, but Nesta could tell that tonight he wanted to _take_ as much as give. He wanted to sate himself on her, find paradise between her thighs, and swallow her down with fierce kisses as he breathed through his nose like an agitated bull. He wanted to rut. He wanted to _fuck_. And by gods, she was going to let him do it. Lying with him always felt like falling over the edge of a precipice, each time a new and greater height.  

He hummed around her taut nipple, the vibration making her clench. He sucked and laved and filled himself up with her moans and sighs as he slid his fingers back and forth. “Gods, you’re so tight,” he said. She could feel a warm, wet rush as he switched to her other breast, his other hand fisting her hair. “That’s it. Yes, just like that. Mmm.” She spread her legs wider, if only to touch herself, to circle around that his favorite treat, that little nub, to get it swollen, just how he liked it.

And he liked it. To the point where he stopped to watch her do it. Watched as their hands worked in tandem to bring her into the blinding edge. Then he pushed her hand away before replacing it with his cruel tongue and, _oh_ , how it tortured her. The most wicked wounding‚ leaving her breathless as he licked and blew and teethed and sucked until she was a writhing, wretched mess. She grasped for purchase. His hair. His face. His back. Anything to keep that sensation building and building until that hot, white light consumed her.

She was almost there before he edged away. She nearly screamed she was so close. Her thighs quivered as she contracted, the spasms and sensations of an almost-orgasm nearly unbearable. He seemed to know it, seemed almost apologetic. The key word being _almost._ The smug prick. If he could, he would tease her until the end of time. Tease her until she was sick with pleasure. Not tonight though. Tonight he was hard, his cock rock-rigid and straining for release. It wouldn’t take much to bring him down. To end his agony.

“Lie back,” he told her, gruffly. The way a commander would tell a foot soldier. “Bring your knees against your chest. Let me see you.” She did, and would have smirked had she not felt so frenzied. He liked it when she was like that. Open and spread out. He once told her it was one of the best views in the world because, like this, he could enter her and watch them join.

His first thrust was slow. Wretchedly slow. He wanted to draw it out. Make her ravenous where she was already hungry. The brute. First, it was only the tip, fucking into her just a little. He drove it in and only that, adding more only when she begged. More and more, he filled her up. His hips rolling against her as he stroked his way to ecstasy. And it _was_ ecstasy, feeling him glide within her, feeling him throb and twitch in all that delicious slickness. What a beautiful mess they made.  

“Yes, Nesta. Come all over me.” He bit down hard on her neck, breaking the skin in a way that would leave a mark. She hoped it would last for days. He was pounding into her now, frantic and feral, and just on the cusp of his own climax. She wouldn’t leave him wanting. She returned his bite with equal measure until he swore and shouted and came...oh gods, how they came together. Fluids mixing. Breath mingling. Souls twining. Every sensation heightened as they peaked and peaked and peaked...

Sweat-soaked and numb, she reached for him. Holding him to her. Cradling him in her arms. He calmed and collapsed into a shaking heap. The tears soon followed. His tears. “My love,” she whispered, allowing him to weep for whatever he lost that day, thankful that she could break through the wall that held him prisoner.

***

It was a while before he spoke. “It was an execution,” he said, the words like gravel in his throat. Her fingers carded through his hair, letting him talk as the embers died in their hearth. “Seven died today at my hands. Their fathers watched. Their mothers watched. Their brothers and sisters watched as I delivered the blow.”

She did not ask him what their crimes were. Cassian would speak of it later, when he was ready. For now, this was the heaviest burden he carried: their endings. The loss was a senseless one, and yet justice from the surrounding clans demanded it. True to Illyrian custom, their execution was not clean. Their deaths were prolonged to make a statement, a warning to others. There was so much blood and they were so young. Each one of them looked upon him as if he were a worm until their very last breath. It didn’t matter that he was the General. He was a bastard and death at his hands meant dishonor and degradation. Their graves, he knew, would be unmarked.

“Nothing’s changed,” he said. Hopeless. Bereft. Nesta held him closer. “It could go on for a millennia. I don’t know how much I can…” A shudder, a deep breath. “I’m just so tired, Nesta. It makes me so tired.” He burrowed into her scent, her skin. To the mark he left on her neck. It bled a little. So did his own, a bright red twin upon his own throat. “But at least I’m not alone.”

“No,” she said. “Not anymore.” She kissed him, chaste and tender. Pouring into it everything she could until he shifted against her, clutching at her like a lifeline. “I’m afraid you’ll be stuck with me forever. In this life and the next.”

He chuckled darkly, the light returning to his face. It would return by small degrees. A little at a time. He would fall again, before he could fly. The stain of this day being one that would take many years to fade, but she would be there to carry him through.

This, she vowed with her very blood.


End file.
